For once, the system surprised me in a pleasant way.
No screaming abominations. No reality-ending concepts pretending to be ideas. No hostile gods wearing containment numbers like decorations.
Instead, we got something almost… kind.
SCP-963.
Doctor Bright.
When the anomaly manifested, I knew immediately what it was—not just the object, but the mind bound to it. The amulet. The transfer effect. The immortality loophole wrapped in humor and recklessness. Compared to what could have arrived, this was practically a gift basket.
And more importantly?
He was useful.
I made the decision instantly.
Doctor Bright became my assistant.
Assistant to O5-1 — Administrator.
The moment he was secured and briefed, I could practically feel the shift. For the first time since my disappearance into the Foundation, I wasn't the only one who could keep up with my thought process. Not match it—let's not get ridiculous—but follow it without slowing everything down.
That alone was refreshing.
Bright adapted fast. Faster than most. Medieval world, ancient politics, immortal rulers, secret global organization operating centuries ahead of time? He took it in stride, cracked a joke about temporal whiplash, and immediately asked what I was working on.
I showed him the schematics.
He stared.
Then he grinned.
"Oh," he said. "We're doing that already."
Yes. Yes, we were.
Between my system-enhanced intellect and Bright's absurdly broad SCP-era scientific knowledge, the pace of progress accelerated violently. He understood principles. I understood application. Where modern infrastructure was missing, I simply built around it. Where materials were limited, I redesigned processes.
Together, we dragged technology forward by force.
The biggest breakthrough came with something deceptively simple.
Gunpowder.
It should have existed earlier in this world. All the ingredients were there. Charcoal. Sulfur. Saltpeter. Humanity just hadn't combined them properly yet—or safely.
We did.
Refined ratios. Controlled granulation. Moisture management. Stabilization techniques to prevent accidental detonation. Bright helped optimize ignition methods while I designed containment-safe manufacturing protocols.
When the first successful batch ignited exactly as intended, I laughed.
Out loud.
In a reinforced underground laboratory lit by electric lights that shouldn't exist.
Swords and spears had served humanity well—but they were obsolete now.
We didn't jump straight to advanced firearms. That would've been foolish. Instead, we developed low-level rifles. Simple firing mechanisms. Black powder cartridges. Reliable enough for trained units, limited enough to remain controllable.
The Foundation's military divisions were the first to receive them.
Alexander was ecstatic.
Cyrus immediately demanded training doctrines.
Julius didn't say much—but I could tell he was already rewriting containment response strategies in his head.
The power imbalance shifted overnight.
An MTF unit with rifles, disciplined training, and early tactical doctrine could annihilate any conventional medieval force without breaking a sweat. And more importantly, they could respond to anomalies with ranged force, coordinated volleys, and suppressive tactics instead of suicidal charges.
Bright was everywhere during this phase.
Testing. Tweaking. Arguing with me over barrel thickness and recoil compensation. Complaining loudly about safety rules while following them anyway. He was annoying.
And brilliant.
Not as brilliant as me—obviously—but still brilliant.
"I have to admit," he said one day, watching a successful firing test. "You're terrifying."
I smiled sweetly. "I know."
He snorted. "You're enjoying this way too much."
Absolutely correct.
The system notifications kept rolling in. Each technological milestone. Each successful deployment. Each secured manufacturing site added to our system point income. The shop expanded accordingly—unlocking more options, more enhancements, more dangerous possibilities.
I restrained myself.
For now.
Because this wasn't just about power. It was about control. About making sure humanity advanced in a way that didn't tear itself apart the moment gods, titans, and SCPs started appearing more frequently.
We were preparing the board.
Doctor Bright understood that too, beneath the jokes.
"This place," he said once, leaning against a workbench. "You're not just building a Foundation early. You're rewriting the entire survival curve."
"Good," I replied. "The old one was insufficient."
He laughed. Then he grew serious.
"You know something worse is coming."
I nodded.
I always knew.
Gunpowder was only the beginning. Firearms were a stepping stone. Electricity, sanitation, logistics, intelligence networks—all pieces of a structure meant to stand against things that didn't care about armies or empires.
And when the dangerous SCPs finally arrived? When the Marvel threats emerged? When cosmic entities began to notice this world?
They wouldn't find medieval humanity.
They would find the Foundation.
Prepared. Armed. Enlightened.
I looked at the glowing schematics projected across the wall—rifles today, artillery tomorrow, containment tech beyond that.
Doctor Bright whistled softly.
"You really are the greatest genius here, aren't you?"
I didn't even hesitate.
"Yes," I said. "And I intend to stay that way."
Somewhere, the system's countdown ticked forward.
Let it.
We were ready for the next escalation.